A Preference for Hindsight

So many odes are of the spring—The world is gorgeous then.New life springs up before our eyesAnd flowers dance beneath clear skiesAnd futures fill the hearts of men—It makes us quick to sing.

So many songs are of the dawn—It is a gorgeous sight.The darkness bows to pink and goldWarm rays of light draw back the coldAnd bird calls break the silent night—It makes us quick to fawn.

We often forward turn our thought—To sunrise and to spring.Where flowers bloom and spur the heartWhere colors flare and chances startWhen futures could hold anything—But futures often rot.

A flower picked is quick to die.The dawn can only pale.The maybes that the futures holdCan pass or fool or just go coldOr chances that look ripe taste stale—But hope can elsewhere lie.So many odes about the fallAre rooted in lament.The forests seem to shed and dieAnd rot and frost enlace the skyAnd one year’s chances have been spent—The world slows to a crawl.

So many songs of sunsets speakIn elegiac tones.The sun is lost and once againThe shadows haunt the world of menAnd leech the spirit from our bones—It surely sounds quite bleak.

For hope, we rarely look behind—To autumn and to gloam.Where leaves fall off but brilliant stayWhere sunsets deepen, burn, make wayFor stars that last, and point us home—To hope of a different kind.

My heart resides with autumn storms,With sunsets, and with pasts.In dreams that I have lived, it dwellsBut these dreams stay and so it swellsAnd finds new hope in that which lasts—That which forever warms